The Next Page
by Traxer
Summary: A Redwall Love Story...sorta, involving two teens that fall beyond the pages of the Redwall series and their discoveries within an Abbey and a horde, finding where the soul belongs and the true nature of the heart. Updated, Part 5: The Conclusion
1. The Storm and Aftermath

_**Writer's Note: **This is a tale of love and circumstance and a bit of twisted conflict...that I really didn't expect to turn into anything, but somehow it did. Special thanks for Fidge forpreviewing,editing, and coming up with the warlord's name. Enjoy!_

**The Next Page: A Redwall Love Story**

From the heart is where the most despicable and vile creatures emerge, and it is from the heart that the beasts of courage and valor come. Strangely enough, it is where love comes from, and love is the most powerful of all.

• • •

"So is this love?"

Liz spun on her heel, her hard look completely loaded and aimed at Mark.It was a look that could make the average person run. Mark was past being an average person in her life, so he only took a step back. He feared he would become an average person again, and that was what made him keep his ground. He knew what was coming.

"Mark, that is not even a real question. Love does not even exist. And if, for an improbable reason, it existed—between us, it is not even a factor."

She stalked down one of the aisles, and Mark, unperturbed, followed. He attempted not to think of the words said. Not just her last statement, but _all_ the statements said in the past few hours. It was scary to think it had been a few hours, and they were still talking (whispering, actually; it was a library after all). When a relationship is declared over, it hopefully happens quickly and with as little pain as possible, sorta like death, except death involves less pain. Instead of the situation, Mark tried to focus on his surroundings. Books with millions of titles blurred by as he kept up with Liz's long strides. He was not going to give up.

This would keep going forever, he realized, if he kept following and composing lines that would never work to fix this. All his words were turning into clichés, gushing into the air. The headache burning at the edges of his consciousness wasn't helping.

Before he knew exactly what he was doing, he took her arm.

• • •

What did he think he was doing? It was over, and she did not want to deal with this anymore, and if she had to look him in the eyes one more time, she...

She did not know what she would do. Her feelings were mussed up in some bubbling bog of discontent, and there was no way of figuring anything out past the junk. She was having trouble thinking, period. She was wandering aimlessly through this library with somebody following her everywhere.

Mark was not just a 'somebody', some voice within corrected her.

The building was getting oppressive now; after row after row of books, she did not know where they were anymore. A glance at the wall revealed it to be the children's literature series section, not that it mattered.

She took a breath and turned to Mark. "This is over. We agree that we don't know what we feel and that this is...uncomfortable. We can't continue this."

"But I..."

"Listen," Liz hissed, "I know what I feel. I like you...that is all. Nothing more, nothing less."

"That's all that's needed." His grasped her other arm, so that they were fully facing each other. Liz was having some doubts now, looking at him, at his long face, at those cheerful eyes, at that short brown hair. She averted her gaze to the bookshelf, along the titles, and it settled on a certain series.

"Redwall..." It was Mark who said it; he must have followed her gaze, "Heh, I read that series."

"So did I," she said, squinting at the titles, the binding worn and cracked under the laminated surface. "I loved those stories." She had spent hours in a secret nook, fading into that fantasy world of animal characters.

"So did I."

Why were they reflecting on childhood books? Liz wondered.

Mark was sinking his face into her hair.

She struggled to back away.

Mark was doing nothing wrong; he had done that before, but it was just not the time, when they were trying to break up. As she stepped back from the Mark's contact, she tripped; whether on the carpet, or a fallen book, she didn't know. She tripped, and Mark, his hands on her arms, tried to catch her, and instead fell with her.

Then there was a sensation, as if falling backwards into an unknown drop, not knowing when she would meet the ground. The drab glow of the buzzing florescent lights blurred, and the books melted away. A rush upon the skin, as if encountering frigid water, and the feeling of coming apart and coming back together at the same time—a very long blink and a breath.

And then it was raining. The water showered down over leaves uncountable in a cascade of sound, filling the dark that submerged the forest. Rain covered almost as much as the inky black of night, and it glistened from vague, ethereal moonlight that filtered through fleeting gaps between thunderheads. And on the forest floor shadowy masses swirled together, struggling against each other in urgency and confusion until one of the wet shadows kicked away the other, into the trunk of a thin oak tree. The impact shook the tree to its branches and sent a downpour of water upon them. Under a canopy of leaves, water fell everywhere around them anyway, where they lay in the foliage.

"Ow, my head," the shadowy beast that was Mark groaned, rolling over the wet grass onto his back. As he said the words, it didn't feel right; it was as if his mouth was not moving the right way, as if his tongue were not the same. He grasped this throat, and slowly felt his tongue across his teeth. There was something odd here. Disorientation submerged him as he sat up and tried to catch sight of Liz. Movement of his limbs even felt odd, and there was a tugging feeling somewhere, but he couldn't figure where.

Liz was going through a similar experience after kicking Mark off her: a sudden sense of awareness of her surroundings. Rushing in at her were details and information, all with some importance. When the shadow rose that she had kicked off her, a sensation to run came. Everything was telling her this was bad, that she needed to escape. She couldn't see, she couldn't hear past the storm, but she could smell something that didn't fit. Smell? How could she smell something wrong? Her attention was focused on the figure, who she knew to be Mark, who she knew to be something bad. She wanted to grasp him in an embrace; she wanted to flee from him.

The thunder crashed. The lightning flashed. Hearts froze at what the white flash showed. The image glowed in their eyes, fading into the wet darkness.

"Liz..." Mark tried to say. The word sounded foreign—in the same voice, yet different. "Is that...? I don't..."

Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed.

The buzz in Liz's mind was unbearable, pulling her in different ways. Unknown thoughts welled up within her.

Mark managed to get to his feet, shifting his...tail...to do so. He didn't know what he had seen, what he was, where he was.

Crash. Flash.

The red squirrel was away into the trees, dashing across the branches and through the leaves, gone into the darkness before the lightning faded away.

The weasel stood alone on the forest floor, staring off in the direction she had gone, letting his fur become saturated by the still falling rain.

• • •

Liz awoke in a cold sweat, half delirious. She found herself under the covers of a bed in an unfamiliar room. A headache pounded at the back of her head, and her stomach felt nauseous. She glanced about the room curiously, trying to remember what had happened, but her fevered mind was not letting her uncover any answers. All she knew now was that she was tucked in up to her neck in bed covers, and there was a sweet smell mixed with the zest of spices floating in the air. She took another breath and relished the wafts of fragrance.

Carefully, she sat up in the bed, rubbing her eyes, and then paused. She pulled her hands away from rubbing to see them; they were not exactly hands. She glanced down from her 'hands' to her arm and saw fur.

She decided she should be panicking by now. She kept delaying it, even as she exited the covers and noticed the difference in her legs and face and bushy tail. Tail?

And then the vole entered.

"Deary me, miss, you're awake!" the vole maid exclaimed in surprise. "We were worried 'bout you last night, comin' to our gates so cold and wet. Nothin' a bit of dryin' and rest couldn't fix. Thank Martin you're well now." The vole fussed with Liz's smock, straightened it, and attempted to flatten the fur on her head. "Now, if you're up to it, I'll just pretty you up a bit and present you to the rest. They're all quite curious. If we hurry we can catch some lunch before Skipper's holt can tuck it all."

Liz was beyond speaking; she was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she had a tail. The vole took no notice of Liz's befuddlement as she pulled out a modest dress from a wardrobe.

"Now this shall bring out your features, dearie. Just slip this on and oh, dearie, I quite forgot to ask—what's your name?"

Liz stared from the strange bluish dress, to the vole's kindly face, to the room. The soft light shimmered off the redstone walls and the homely features; she felt as if she would faint, or wake up, at any time.

"Elizabeth," she finally heard herself say. "Yes, Elizabeth."

• • •

"Markus," Mark stated in a level, dazed voice.

The fox wrote this on the parchment on his desk. Mark could hear the quill scratch out the name, and he could even smell the wet ink; he smelled many other things too, though he could not yet place them. He would have called it sensory overload, if it was actually overflowing his senses. Actually, it seemed that his senses had refined in order to take more information in.

This made sense, since he knew officially he was now a weasel—as the fox warlord, Velaren, was now writing on the paper.

"What is your business in Mossflower Country?"

Mark could only shrug; his mind was focused on the details of the tent, the maps strung at one side, weaponry on the other, the armor just behind the Velaren 's chair, the oddly formal attire of the fox. Considering the grimy appearance of the rest of the beasts in this camp, it was a notable contrast.

Velaren tapped his claws upon the table impatiently. "Markus is an interesting name for a weasel," he said.

Mark's ears perked up, and he noted Velaren had temporarily skipped the previous question. He wasn't sure how to respond to this one, so he shrugged again.

"You are not from around these parts, I see. You appear fidgety, as though you are confused and lost."

"No, I'm not from around here exa—"

"Flinch, I give any beast I meet a choice: either you contribute to my horde, or you contribute to my fur coat." The fox presented a cloak to Markus's view, made up of the pelts of various creatures. His stomach suddenly felt hollow.

"So, Flinch, what is your choice?" Velaren asked, a grin, evil incarnated into a smile, slipping across his features.

Markus blinked, not fully catching that he was now 'Flinch', his mind reeling in a profound fear of the fox. So this was a warlord.

"I'll...be in your...horde," Markus managed.

"Welcome, Flinch. I am sure that this shall be an...educating experience for both of us."

• • •


	2. A Week Later

**Author's Note: **_Thanks much for the kind reviews. Just as warning, not going to be a really long story, just long enough. And I /hope/ there won't be long delays in updating, considering it's mostly complete. Enjoy. _

• • •

"Everything is fine—that is to say, fine for here, not fine for me at all, I...help me, I'm not a squirrel. I may look like one, but I am not..."

"Are you sure, mate? Because on the honor of me seadog muther, you don't look much like a rabbit to me."

Liz's words caught in her throat like sharp stone; she was not expecting a response to them from anybeast. "Anybody," Liz corrected herself. She weakly waved at the otter that was now standing besides her on the ramparts. "Oh, I didn't see you...Seawisp." Liz was still trying to remember names; every creature of the same species looked the same to her. Seawisp, thankfully, was recognizable by the aqua bandana around her neck.

Seawisp's fur was still dripping from a swim in the pond, and the smell of her made Liz think of 'wet dog'. She couldn't help but be comforted by Seawisp's cheerful disposition as the ottermaid grinned down at her. "Don't mean to pry at yer shell, just get the tingle in me tail that yer worried 'bout something." She put a paw on Liz's shoulder. "What's on yer mind?"

Liz didn't know what to say. She couldn't bear to look into the otter's kind, dark brown eyes; she couldn't force herself to lie, so she said the only thing she could. "I…I don't...belong here."

"Of course you do." Seawisp's gruff voice mellowed to a smoother comforting tone. "Any beast with a good heart who comes to the our Abbey gates..."

"I know, I know that," Liz snapped, and then shrank back from Seawisp's paw. "Oh, I'm sorry…I keep seeing his face, so confused, with so much...care. And I...left him." The tears were streaming down, dampening her fur. "I'm a squirrel and yet…this place doesn't exist and it's so nice but this _can't_ be real and..."

The otter embraced the crying squirrelmaid in her strong arms. "There, there, Elizabeth, don't cry. Can't bear to see another beast cry. Let's just get you down to Cavern Hole and get you some of those fresh scones Friar Truff is making." Seawisp finished the hug and wiped a still falling tear from Liz's cheek. "Wot do ya say?"

The hug had both surprised Liz and encased her in a deep peace, and as she looked into the otter's concerned face, the word 'friend' rose in her mind.

She sniffed, and then brought herself to smile. "That sounds nice."

She still couldn't stop thinking about Mark.

• • •

The stick whacked across Mark's maw, hard, causing him to take a few steps back.

"You need to work on keeping your paws moving."

He moved his tongue, investigating to see if the contact had jarred any teeth loose, and he forced a smile at the weaselmaid. "Yeah. Trying to remember that."

"At this rate, a bunch o' mousebabes towoud beatcher tail off," a stoat, Blookill, chuckled from where he watched, sipping generous helpings of grog between sentences.

"Not sure about _that_," the weaselmaid, Thorn, countered. "He may be wet be'ind the ears, but his reaction time and agility are...reasonable."

"Interesting vocabulary," Mark said, readying himself for the next onslaught.

"Vo-caby-wot?" Blookill coughed in mid swig of his drink.

"Aye." Thorn grinned, coming upon Mark with a series of quick jabs and swings with the practice stave. "'Love' is the vocabulary clouding your own talent from getting above 'reasonable.'"

"Wha—" That comment caused Mark's guard to fall a moment, and the stave met his gut, with force. The next moment Mark's snout was in the dirt, his paws were clutching at the point of impact, his lungs grappling for air.

"Blookill, leave," Thorn ordered, and the stoat noted the dangerous flare in the female weasel's eyes. He stumbled away as quickly as his drunken footpaws would carry him.

Mark lay on his back, wheezing to get his lungs working again; it wasn't until her whiskers tickled his nose that he realized how close Thorn was.

"So who is she?"

"I really..."

"Flinch, you are surviving hordelife fine for one who has not experienced it before and knows nothing about its realities..."

Mark thought of the books read through his childhood about this world, and how much they matched the reality, and also the details they missed. "I know a little..."

"You know nothing. Velaren has got it out for you, and you keep on fanning the flames of his anger with your bloody ignorance. Your life doesn't matter to me, so I will explain once and only once: watch your back and shut your maw."

Oh dang, Mark thought as he saw her eyes. He remembered Liz when she used to have that look, until it started to fade away into discontent and uncertainty. How much pain she had caused his heart, and yet he didn't want to admit it to his mind. And now...

Where was Liz? Why had she run?

He brought himself back to the ebbing pain in his stomach. Thorn, this hordebeast, this weaselmaid, cared about him.

The silence deepened, the trees rustled as a breeze slipped by, the shadows swayed, and birdsong could be heard in the distance, just past the usual drone of the vermin camp.

"I did love," Mark said. "I think I did. Love so deep that it hurt. Then doubt came, which hurt even more, and I wanted to ignore it. She couldn't ignore. We dated so long and relied on each other so much that when she finally acted on her doubt, I...I couldn't let go..." Mark was breaking down; he was not letting himself sob, as an inner instinct suppressed that into some deep unfeeling place in his soul, but the tears broke through to run down his head, back past his ears, into the dirt.

The push of Thorn's paws lightened, and she took a breath. Mark closed his eyes to the weasel. He had collapsed under the pressure, and he had destroyed any chance of getting help in this world. The weaselmaid would now berate him, and no matter how petty it was, how he still barely knew this 'Thorn', he couldn't stand the thought of it coming. He needed to break the silence. "This does not exist. This is all fiction. I'm not a wea-"

"I'm not sure what 'dating' is. Get up."

Mark opened his eyes as Thorn got off him, and readied herself for another trial with the stave. As Mark carefully got to his footpaws, for the first time he actually _looked _at the weasel: from her hazelnut fur to some white shading on her paws, to her light-furred underbelly, to her perhaps cute face. There was a slight sparkle near her cheek, and before Mark could be sure what it was, it was gone.

A tear.

While in this horde, he realized, he was so distracted and ignorant that he had not noticed anything besides rats and ferrets and stoats and foxes. He had not seen that they were something past rough caricatures of evil to be avoided if possible.

He saw that they were just...normal...

"Are you ready to start again, Flinch? Now that the ferret's out of the bag?" Thorn winked.

Mark smiled. "Sure."

• • •


	3. Disillusion Broken and Foreshadowing

• • •

Days passed, and somehow, Liz found herself in the midst of a kitchen melee. Delicacies were cooking everywhere, beasts were dashing to check on every sort of pie and cake she could ever imagine, concoctions were being stirred, and batter and cream covered Dibbuns were everywhere. She never would have expected that the Abbey kitchens before such a huge feast would be so crazy—yet another instance from the stories that she had encountered.

Seawisp expertly steered the squirrelmaid between beasts. She was pointing out foods as she went, as if she were a tour guide. "...There is the ever wonderful Mossflower Wedge and over there is the delectiable Lemon 'n Butter Trout and here is the mole's famous Deeper 'n Ever Pie and smell this, Skipper's famed recipe of Hotroot Soup and oh...we ought to hurry back out before Friar can..."

"Seawisp! Elizabeth!" a voice boomed, and a pudgy hedgehog, Friar Truffm rapidly mixing a bowl of pudding, appeared from behind a Three Layered Abbey Redcurrant Cake. "Nice to see you beautiful maids have decided to come down to the kitchens. Busy?"

Seawisp struggled for an excuse. "You see, Skipper...um...needs help with fishing..."

"Ah, that slippery waterdog can catch a whole basket of fishies himself. You, slippery ottermaid, can help Jyp over there with flipping those epic blueberry flans on the skillet. I'm worried that mole will drown in the batter and we'll be havin' blueberry mole instead." The Friar's deep laugh drowned out all other sounds in the kitchen, which was quite a feat. Liz edged away from the coming chore, hoping the hedgehog hadn't noticed her presence, but Seawisp caught hold of her bushy tail.

"No abandoning a trapped matey," Seawisp growled good-naturedly. "Liz would like to help too."

Friar Truff eyed Liz suspiciously. "Not sure about letting Greenhorns into my kitchens..."

"If Horner can be allowed in here to sample, I'm sure you can find a task for Elizabeth." Seawisp grinned.

"GET AWAY FROM THAT APPLE PIE OR I'M GETTING SOME HARE EAR OVEN PADS!" Friar Truff boomed, causing Horner to skitter away with nary a "wot, wot" in reaction. "Liz, you retrieve the meadowcream where it's cooling in the wine cellar, and make sure the Dibbuns don't get the chance to dive into it."

The hare, Horner, poked his head back into the kitchens. "I could help 'er, wot, wot."

"Horner, you'd quaff it all with one lick! OUT OF MY KITCHENS. You too Liz—hurry up, scones are out of the fire any moment, and I want the cream on before they cool."

Liz felt a little lost and befuddled as she dashed to complete the task. The corridors of redstone felt a bit disorienting as she jogged down them, taking the stairs on all four paws for speed, until she realized she had made a wrong turn and sprinted back up. The books had not made the Abbey layout simple, and she wished she hadn't been so distracted when Seawisp gave her the tour. All she knew was that you could get almost anywhere from the Great Hall, and she didn't even know where that was at the moment.

She hit a door, literally, and rubbed her smarting nose. She noted the door was familiar, and as she opened it, she was relieved to smell the sweet wafts of fermenting drinks, a large bowl sitting near. As she reached for it, she was interrupted by a hiccup from within the gloom of the cellar, and the Cellarhog came into sight, rolling a large barrel towards the bowl. "Hullo, missy. Coming to visit ol' Quaffy and sample a bit of October Ale?"

Displaying a bit of squirrel agility, Liz leapt in and moved the bowl out of the path of the barrel. "Quite sorry, I'm on a mission, but I shall stop by later." She flashed a smile at the somewhat intoxicated hedgehog as she exited the room and made her way toward the kitchen.

How much time had passed?

In her quest to finish the Friar's order, she had never even noted the obvious surreal nature of all this. The feeling had faded more and more with her time here, until it felt a natural thing. Was that bad?

Absorbed with this thought, and with a very cream-filled wooden bowl in her paws, the squirrel standing around the corner took her by surprise when she ran into him. The bowl went flying into an epic arch that completed when it landed, upended, upon the squirrel's head. There was a long moment, as Liz looked in shock at the beast she had just creamed.

He slowly took the bowl off his head and blinked past the white confectionery, licking his lips. "Mmm...sweet cream that I can only assume is a gift from the Dark Forest," and noticing Liz, "presented from what I can only assume to be a heavenly spirit of unprecedented beauty, if not grace."

Blushing beneath her fur, Liz said, "Oh, so sorry, I..."

The squirrel took a beret off his head, revealing his fluffy red ears, and squeezed the creamy headpiece. "No, thank you. I haven't had as sweet a greeting on return to Redwall from anybeast until you. I must say, I think I would have remembered such a pretty maw. Treeskip is my name, and what may yours be?"

"Liz. Elizabeth. Yes, Liz," the squirrel maid fumbled; she saw something in his eyes past the cream. And his smile! "How will I bring the cream to the kitchens?" She regretted saying that—it sounded awkward and stupid. He would think her dim. For some reason, she desperately wanted him to think well of her. Why? What was driving her to that ambition?

"Ah, I guess you will have to bring me, since it seems to have taken residence in my fur." He held his tail with a certain confidence, and yet it twitched...as if nervous.

Like her own was doing.

"Friar told me not to let Dibbuns dive into the cream, but he never said anything about the cream diving upon somebeast...or upon handsome squirrels either."

• • •

Mark awoke from the embrace of a deep, comfortable sleep. Groggily, he rose from his sleeping position; it was a way of laying all tucked up, his tail over his nose, which seemed to add a bit of warmth and security. Mark had grown to like the position and was beginning to find the odd value of a tail. He blinked, and he saw two sets of eyes shining in the dim moonlight, the shadows of trees above. Strange, he was outside the tent. He tried to say something, and a strong paw jammed his jaw shut, and then something resembling a muzzle was placed over it.

Mark tried to move, only to be held down; the blanket was pulled up to restrain his limbs. Finally a hood was placed over his head, and he was greeted by pitch black and utter confusion. It all happened so fast, Mark didn't even have time to think; there were only brief moments of confusion, and not even the time to panic properly. The beasts knew what they were doing, and they were silent in doing it.

What were they going to do to him? He couldn't even growl through the muzzle to show his contempt, or whimper to show his fear. His instincts scoffed at the latter of the two choices. That wasn't even an option.

Still, his imagination feared the worst and conjured the possibilities, even though he couldn't bring himself to be scared of them. His breath was hot, collecting within his hood, smelling of a songbird, a meadowlark, tangy but too stringy to be anything to write home about. Now if it had been woodpigeon…

Where were these thoughts coming from?

For all he knew they were dragging him to be branded or maimed, to see if he would float with a rock tied on his footpaw, or if he would bounce if dropped from a tall tree, or if he would cook over a spit properly. Who knew what intrigued the vermin mind? When Mark considered his own thoughts, he figured he didn't want to know.

The hood was slipped off. In the flicker of a campfire behind them, Blookill and a pine marten with one ear—Perks, Mark had heard him called—stood in front of Mark. Menacing weapons of torture, which Mark couldn't place the names of, were in their paws.

"Do you promise, from the blood of your liver, that you will not tell any unworthy soul of what you witness here tonight, on punishment of having your tongue pulled out through your ear?" Perks said, as if reciting some ancient decree.

"Mmrrmm."

"You might have to take off the muzzle," someone out of Mark's sight suggested.

"It's a yes or no question. He could just nod," Perks countered.

Mark sighed, unsure what this would entail, and nodded.

"_Now_ off with the muzzle."

Blookill obliged. "We never get enough use out of this thing, and it's so fun to use. I should make a drinking game with this..."

"Not the time Blookill," a familiar voice cut in, and Mark saw Thorn sitting next to him. "Let's just get to the tales. Seb, you're first."

A ragged rat with a battle-ax strapped on his back arose, clearing his throat. "I shall tell you the Tale of the Screaming Eels, a tale from the Far Southern Shores..."

Under the moonlight, around a flickering campfire, some distance away from the camp, the few dozen beasts settled down to listen. The only sound present was Seb's methodical voice, spinning a tale.

Mark could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

"We started this a few seasons ago, a gathering of some beasts from the horde to share tales, both from old lore and created on the spot—and some even from personal experience." Thorn whispered the explanation, most likely noticing Mark's befuddled expression. "Seb's a library of ol' sea tales." The grizzled rat was getting into the motions of the tale, acting out the waves of the storm he was describing.

"Never would have guessed..."

"Grew up thinking hordebeasts had rocks fer brains and our only entertainment was pain?"

"No. Never. That's not what..."

"Nevermind. Mark, you are learning."

Her paw snuck up under his shirt and up his back, scratching him; not for pain, but in a soft massaging way, oddly comfortable. He edged closer to Thorn, unsure, his instincts and his mind telling him the same. She used his real name...

"Thorn, I..."

Seb completed, sitting down after acting out the part of a stoat gurgling in death as an eel disemboweled him. All eyes moved to Mark.

"Flinch, since you are a new member to our horde, it's only right that you go next."

"I'm not really good at telling—"

"There's a good helping of woodpigeon for the beast with the best story tonight."

Mark's stomach grumbled with the thought of the unsatisfying songbird, and his imagination spun with sudden inspiration. Thinking back to a Redwall fanfiction he had written in middle school, he began, "There was once weasel of black, a demon, that escaped from the fiery grips of Hellgates, whose cry could plague the soul with never ending pain..."

• • •

The sun falling over the horizon set the redstone wall ablaze, the rose hue cast in the essence of gold. The aftermath of the Nameday feast spread over the orchard, from the still messy tables to the remnants of succulent food. Most Abbeybeasts had wandered inside to Cavern Hole to avoid the evening coolness, yet a few bided their time seated in the bright beauty of the orchard, which was still in a spring bloom. Sweet smells of flowers and food flowed into Liz's senses, and she almost wanted to hold her breath forever to savor the sensation.

The feeling of paws stroking her head as she lay in Treeskip's lap was part of this sensation. She couldn't help letting the bliss show on her face for the other squirrel to see. He had arrived from a tenure outside of the Abbey walls just a few days ago, and after the meadowcream incident, they had been inseparable. Liz couldn't explain how it was possible to feel this way. This was not right, and yet nothing in her actually told her that. She only wished to look into his light chestnut eyes for hours.

Through this ecstasy she could vaguely hear Abbot Malarkey, a vole, in a discussion with the Badger Mother Tulip.

"...haven't heard anything yet. Skipper said it was nothing to worry about. Still, to take most of his holt into Mossflower during Nameday festivities is unusual. I'm just not certain."

"Abbot, you worry—that is your duty: to sacrifice bliss for wariness so that the rest of our Abbey remains in peace. In this case, I'm sure Skipper knows what he's doing. It's probably just a small vermin band that has wandered too close to the Abbey."

"Skipper didn't eat a thing. If there were no 'big worries,' I doubt that waterdog wouldn't tuck as least as much as a troupe of hares."

"That's an exaggeration—have you seen how much a troupe of hares can eat?" As Tulip gave a deep laugh, Liz lost track of the conversation. Treeskip tugged at her ears playfully and Liz giggled. She couldn't deny this bliss and yet...

"Liz, why does you frown so suddenly?"

She didn't realize a frown had cracked her blissful expression. There was no point in hiding it from Treeskip; he seemed to have sixth sense about that sort of thing.

"It is no matter. I just remembered an old friend."

"Wasn't a squirrel more handsome than me, was it?"

Liz knew he was joking but she couldn't bring herself to smile. "No, not a squirrel...just a friend...Mark."

To say his name aloud made memories flutter back to her head, and a renewed sense of guilt and confusion. She didn't want that. She refused to take it.

"Treeskip, let's go inside...I'm not feeling well..."

Mark.

The name echoed in her mind as Treeskip led her towards the Gatehouse.

Mark.

Where was he?

• • •

Liz.

Mark rubbed the water through his fur, pondering if the coldness would wake him from this delusion. It had to be a delusion, no matter how real it felt. Doubts had formed in his mind, though he had little time to reflect on them between drills, practicing with Thorn, and currently, a series of meetings with the fox warlord.

He stared at his rippled reflection in the river, at his dark, brown-furred face, his white underjaw, his sharp carnivore teeth. It was strange how he had gotten so used to his appearance. Mark licked his paw and brought it across his forehead, to flatten the tufts of sticking-up fur.

Thorn had been right. The fox warlord was eyeing him at all times, watching his every move, ready to react to any misstep, to respond to any ill placed word, as if he were looking for an excuse, any excuse, to torture him to the tip of his weasel tail.

Mark did his best to take this in stride, but he had enough trouble avoiding bullies in the real world and didn't think this charade could last much longer.

A stoat tapped on his shoulder, telling him to report to Velaren right away. Mark went to the tent, sat down, and barely listened as the fox displayed his 'mastery' of rhetoric.

"You should be proud of yourself, Flinch. I think you are developing into a capable, bloodthirsty, ruthless hordebeast."

This compliment fell cruel and hollow on Mark's ears, and he could sense the bite in every word, words that took up most of the one-sided conversation. Even the fox's smile was fake-looking.

The fox pulled the many-furred cloak from behind his desk and buried his snout in it, taking a snorting whiff of its smells. Mark watched this indifferently, noting that Velaren was definitely obsessed with that grisly cloak. He studied his claws, wondered at their sharpness, as he waited for the fox to speak again.

Something was draped over his shoulders, and Velaren was speaking into his ear. "Of all the furs of my conquered enemies, it is interesting that my dashing cloak does not contain a weasel skin."

"Mmm." Mark cringed at the horrible smell the...thing was giving off.

The fox rubbed Mark's furry head and continued, "I sense something about you Flinch, a certain something different about the way you act, as if you are capable of great good..." Velaren slipped an arm around Mark and brought them cheek to cheek. The fox's other paw waved across to a map behind the desk, inky marks all over it, and a label that said Redwall in its center. "...And also capable of great evil."

Normally, Mark would be disheartened by this presentation, but he had grown to rely on his instinctual emotions, rather than his human ones, under the training of Thorn. He only felt slightly awkward with Velaren so near. Still, he couldn't figure what this fox was thinking. Maybe he was regressing into madness, as warlords had a habit of doing in this universe.

"I don't think you are what you appear," the fox said, "but I have the feeling that you are going to be quite an asset to our horde."

There was a buzz in Mark's mind. It took a few moments to realize it, and another to place it. It was a surging rage coming over his instincts, but a controlled rage that could wait to be released.

"Maybe I will..."

• • •

**Author's Note**: _Heh. I think the dialogue needs work in areas. It's a work in progress for me as a writer. Thanks for reading and all those who have reviewed.The advice is very useful. The downhill part is coming soon..._


	4. The Night Meeting

**Author's Note: **_Here's a short part before the final slope. Sorry for the delay._

• • •

Dreams are either a form of delusion or a message from beyond. They can hold sweet and sour in the same sequence, and they can reveal the darkest parts of the mind. Love also does these things.

So, in truth, either of these entities could explain why two beasts awoke and felt drawn into the darkness of Mossflower.

• • •  
The clearing was lit by the flow of moonbeams from the full lunar plate.

Liz emerged from the foliage, wary of every shadow, a tentative twitch in her movements.

"I knew you would come," a familiar voice said. The weasel, Mark, sat on large stone in the middle of the clearing. "I mean, I don't know how I knew...I just felt that...I'm not..."

"A dream?" Liz said. There was so much she wanted to say other than that. So much wanted to flow from her mouth. She was a _squirrel_. It was strange how saying that did not feel so surreal now, strange that she had to remind herself that bushy tail had not always followed her, that this all was a fictitious world.

Or was it?

"Do you know how we can get back?"

"Have you had a rough time?"

Liz's whiskers twitched. Of course she was having a rough time, everything was...was... There was a white canvas where the roughness of these days was to be drawn, and Liz couldn't figure what to draw.

No, she wanted to get back to her life. Or she should want to go back. Either way… "Mark. You got us here. Get us back."

"_I _got us here?" the weasel snapped, his teeth glinting. "You said you didn't care. That what we were wasn't real. That there is no such thing as love. That..."

Liz wanted to dart away, like the first time she had seen the weasel, through the trees as a red blur. She made herself stay; she sat next to who she knew was Mark.

"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant."

"What i did /I you mean?" Mark said, sounding more curious than angry now, as if the apology had released him.

"You know, after all this, I can't really remember."

"I'm sorry too," Mark sighed.

"For what?"

"I really can't remember either."

They looked at each other, eye to eye, maw to maw, vermin and goodbeast.

"You know, you're pretty cute still," Mark commented.

"Look who's talking, fuzzy."

They both grinned, realizing how crazy this really was, how they had traveled all this way and not come to terms with the madness.

Then the shadows grabbed Liz from behind.

• • •

As the vermin attempted to get a grip on Liz, a stoat, Ripear, came up to Mark and patted him on the back.

"Great job, Flinchy," Ripear said. "You distracted her long enough for us to come in. Should have told us about the kidnapping, though. We were on a scouting mission in the area."

"Wha—?" Mark didn't know what to say. This wasn't expected, he would never do this, he couldn't, what was happening?

"Mark..." Liz whimpered.

"What were you and the treemouse talking about, anyway?" Ripear asked, mischief in his voice. "Sounded interesting, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"Oh yes, interesting." All Mark wanted to do now was stab something through that stoat's throat.

A lance did that for him.

A rat holding down Liz was transfixed between the eyes; the same fate met a stoat.

A lance skimmed the fur on Mark's cheek. He snapped out of his daze from seeing the bloody death of Ripear, and he saw the troop of otters moving into the clearing. What they saw was a weasel left standing.

Mark scrambled for the trees, more lances skimming past, and he could hear Liz screaming something. He made it to the brush, but the lances kept coming. Moving on all four paws, he went further away from the clearing. He didn't know how far he had gotten; he was in a panic—what had happened?

Two paws reached down and pulled him up, paws tight around his throat. It was Velaren, grinning a horrible grin.

The sounds of beasts yelling filled the night.

"Time's up, weasel."


	5. The Duel

**Writer's Note: **_Thanks again for the reviews and reading this. The conclusion shall be coming soon, as in, the next few days. All thoughts and suggestions on tale are welcome. Forgive me for some of my dialogues..._

• • •

"Before you stands a traitor, a despicable specimen of the lowest sort of vermin. But, since I am a fair beast, I think it would be best to let this creature answer to his crimes."

Nobeast in the horde had _ever_ heard Velaren give anybeast the chance to say _anything_ before their maw was separated from their face. There was a collective consensus that this would prove to be an impressive, if bloody, interrogation.

Mark didn't know what to say...

• • •

"Where do I start?"

"Missy, we lost three of our troop to those vermin because you went gallivanting off into the woods like a candied chestnut high Dibbun," Skipper growled.

"But oi loik candied chestnuters."

"Rerick, no interrupting meetings in Cavern Hole. Go grab a scone and run outside," Badgermother Tulip said to the molebabe as she lifted him from under the table and carried him out. Elizabeth faintly smiled, wishing that she could return to the bliss experienced in Redwall, that she wasn't in this situation now, under the biting tone of the fierce otter Skipper.

She focused on the otter and said, "I was i not /i gallivanting."

"What _were_ you doing?"

Liz crossed her arms. "Meeting a friend."

Skipper edged closer, leaning across the table. "You mean that weasel?"

"Skipper, let us hear this from the beginning. Elizabeth? Where did you live before you came to Mossflower?" the Abbot asked, a kind look on his face. He placed a restraining paw on Skipper.

Elizabeth wasn't sure what to say anymore. This was madness. She felt sick and could no longer could think straight. If this was madness, why didn't she just answer in her truth of madness?

"We were in a library. My boyfriend was with me. I told him that we needed to break up. I tried to leave, but he followed. We fell. We ended up in Mossflower."

The Recorder, an aging mouse, rubbed his chin. "A 'boyfriend'?"

• • •

There were murmurs of question in Mark's explanation. No one could make head nor tale of it, and Velaren's temper grew.

"What's a girlfriend?" he growled. "Some fantastical delusion? You are responsible for a whole scouting party being killed, and any chance of taking Redwall off guard. And you are going to pay."

Velaren stopped, an odd grin slipping over his features, and he backed away from Mark. He spoke loud enough so the horde could hear. "So, is this 'girlfriend' that squirrel?"

Mark felt himself growling at the fox. "You're stupid."

"What was that?" Velaren hissed, turning, fury in his movement.

• • •

"Stupid. There is nothing that says I can't talk to a weasel."

"Then why..."

"Why doesn't matter! It doesn't. It doesn't even mean anything. So what if he is a weasel. I'm sorry lives were lost. That's not my fault..."

"It is your fault, whatever you say, missy. It is your responsibility."

Liz bit her lip, trying to hold in the tears. "Why were you there?"

Skipper backed away from the squirrel maid. "Patrolling the woods."

"Why?"

"There was vermin activity."

"I didn't know about that last night."

"There was no need for you to know. Nobeast in the Abbey past the elders and my holt knew. There was no cause for alar—"

"So that's it. You leave everybeast in ignorance," Liz said, not believing that she was saying this. "All they know of vermin is that they are soulless scum covered with fur. Caricatures of pure evil. Do you even know a vermin?"

"No..."

"Then why do you think you can tell me _anything_ about that weasel?"

"It looked..."

"Hellgates what it looked like. I don't even know..."

• • •

"Shut your babble," Velaren ordered.

"You don't like hearing anything besides what you think. Redwall will never be defeated. Does your horde know how many vermin have died trying to defeat that stone building? You. Are. Stupid."

Velaren gripped Mark by the throat. "I said, shut your maw."

"A duel," Mark managed to croak.

"A _what_?"

"A DUEL," Mark said louder, the grip lightning.

"You, duel _me_?" Mark could see the ill-covered glee in the fox's expression. He released the weasel. "Fine. At sunset." Velaren walked away through the horde in the direction of his tent.

Thorn ran up to Mark. "Flinch, what made you say all those things? Why did you challenge him to a duel? You'll die against him. Nobeast has ever—"

"Shh, I know the odds. They are always like that. Just get me a weapon."

"Oh," Thorn said, taking the weasels face in her paws. "You are pretty stupid. Whatever that means."

Mark didn't expect the kiss.

• • •

The Abbot cleared his throat, "Elizabeth, I find what you tell me hard to believe, and yet, I trust you completely."

"I'm really sorry about yelling at Skip—"

"Pah. That's nothing to fret about. I'm amazed you stood up to that fierce waterdog. Many a beast quivers under his opinionated, fish-breathed maw."

Elizabeth was surprised to hear such things from the Abbot, a supposedly sturdy and even-minded beast, or at least that's what all the books had portrayed. It was a face the Abbot hadn't shown her entire time here. Then again, she hadn't had the chance to speak with him alone. Now they were in his homely office, papers everywhere and a window open to the setting sun, which set the office into golden hued shadows.

The Abbot continued, "I find your argument for your actions to be compelling. Of course, three otters did die—though in the confusion of conflict, who is to know whose fault it was." The mouse took one of Liz's paws in his own. "You are young, and yet you seem to hold some knowledge from beyond, something we Abbeybeasts could never dream of. I do not believe that you are from these parts."

Liz's gaze widened. _The Abbot could say that again._

"I'm sorry for coming here. I don't know what led me to the Abbey. I will leave if..." Liz stumbled. She really did not want to leave the joy and warmth of this place. Her experiences in her time here spread forever in her mind, a sea of bliss.

"No. Everything that happens has a reason. You coming to Redwall is not by chance, it is by fate."

There was a glimmer in the mouse's eye that Liz couldn't decipher. It made the fur on her tail tingle.

"Liz, just before you came, I had a dream..."

• • •

"Watch his tail and his flanks. Do not stay still unless you have a moving point, whether it be your tail or your weapon. I...do you even know how to use a broadsword?"

Mark shrugged. "I know enough."

Thorn kissed him again on the cheek, the electricity causing Mark's tail to wave about erratically.

Mark playfully pushed her off. "Oh Hellgates, I'm not visiting the Dark Forest yet."

Thorn didn't say anything as she quickly left the tent. She wouldn't dare reveal her true emotions. Mark sighed as his patted down his fur, looking into his reflection in the broadsword. There was a sense of peace within him, as if his tensions and fears had reached their limits and drained away. They were replaced by a deep awareness of his being and a sense of surrealism. This no longer felt real to him. This had to be dream, despite everything.

Could Thorn be a figment of his imagination? An incarnation of those books he had read so long ago? That sensation he felt when he talked to her…

Mark exited the tent, scanned over the crowd of vermin faces, grim, and yet there was some collective glimmer hope as they looked at him. Why?

The thoughts of Thorn were bothering him now. What was it that he felt? He knew very well that feelings had no words to describe them and yet he wanted to place that feeling that burned at him.

He was close to a clearing in the crowd, an open space around a campfire. He held his broadsword at the ready. It was quiet, and Mark could read the looks of support on the hordebeast's maws.

They _wanted_ him to win.

Love.

The word hit Mark as Velaren stepped into the clearing, his own gleaming broadsword in paw.

The burning feeling for Thorn. He knew it once before, when he had looked upon Liz...

The fearsome fox sneered, and yelled loud enough for all the horde to hear, "Ready?"

Mark caught Thorn's face among the crowd.

Could his be a dream?

_Oh Hellgates..._

• • •

Somebeast was holding her, carrying her in their arms, her tail dragging along the floor. Liz cracked open her eyes to see Treeskip's face grinning down at her.

"You nodded off in the Abbot's room, and he called me to retrieve you," he explained.

Liz hadn't nodded off. It was because of what she had been told by the Abbot. Her mind was spinning, but in the strong arms of Treeskip all confusion melted away with the sound of his deep voice.

This couldn't all be a dream. Treeskip could not be her imagination. In his presence there was a rush in her heart that she couldn't deny. The sensation was something she thought she had lost to an overwhelming pain. Something she thought she felt with Mark.

"Do you believe in love?" Liz whispered.

Treeskip stopped walking, considered it a moment, and then brought up Liz's face to nuzzle her nose. "If you can't believe in love, nothing else is worth believing, fair maiden."

Pleasure enclosed the squirrelmaid's heart. "I thought so."

• • •

Steel clashed upon steel, reverberating through Mark's paws. He possessed certain skill as a weasel that he could not imagine having as a human. Thorn's lesson's had helped, but there were methods he was using that were...instinctive. The blade swung about to counter every swing, ever patiently. It almost _did_ feel like a dream.

What would happen if he let the blade hit?

What would happen if he stopped fighting?

A flicker of a pause. Velaren swung upwards with the blade. Mark didn't block it. He watched it come toward him—steel death rushing up at his head. He suppressed instinct.

"MARK!"

He flinched as the blade hit his skull. Pain exploded, blood splattered, footpaws lost contact with the ground. He hit the ground, his vision flashed. He saw everything, everybeast looking down at him. The fox rushing into view, Thorn yelling, Blookill kicking him to move. He heard no sound but that of pain, he saw the blade flashing the gold of sunset, the blood red of the sky.

"Please get up..."

Instinct flooded back to him.

His footpaws shot up, catching Velaren in the gut.

The fox saw the bloody weasel stand up in the shadows, his appearance changed somehow. An odd paing of fear hit him, a horrible sensation that something had went wrong. He tried backing off, but the weasel lunged forward.

Mark barely knew what he did. He kept moving forward, moving the weapon with a sudden power and fierceness, ever harder, unable to hear or feel or even see as he continued forward into a dark fury of hate and rage.

And then it stopped.

Dark blood covered the blade, dripping hot over the hilt, sinking into the chestnut fur of his paws.

The sun set.

• • •


	6. The Dream and the Conclusion

• • •

There are decisions made and truths found, whether by choice or fate. The characters find more in their lives by just by living a new story, though they don't know why. When love is involved, does it really matter?

What will the next step be? It is only for the players to decide.

"And that's why I bring you here," a kindly voice said, from everywhere in the realms of dream. Mark and Liz sat next to each other on a park bench, now in their human forms. A lamp shone above them.

Shadows formed and faded in the fogginess around them, until one of the shadows slipped into a solid entity and stood before them. It was a mouse, a grin playing across his features.

"Martin?" Liz gasped.

The mouse laughed as he repositioned his floppy beret. "Not exactly, fair maiden."

"You're not...Gonff, are you?" Mark guessed.

"Bingo, Flinchy," Gonff exclaimed, leaping up besides Mark on the bench and clapping him on the back, "Martin is a stick in the mud for this sort of thing. He would _never_ imagine bringing characters over from the other side."

"Characters? I don't understand."

"You're not supposed to Markie," Gonff said, mussing up the teen's brown hair. "There is so much you humans are not allowed to know. Dangerous information, don'tcha know."

"But...why?" Liz managed to ask.

"To teach you both lessons of life, love, and happiness. Also, because it's so fun messin' with you." Gonff rubbed his paws impatiently. "I guess you want to return to reality, eh?"

There was silence on the park bench. Gonff smiled as he waited.

• • •

_Four seasons later..._

"Our leader requests an audience with your leader."

"Why? So you can trick us?" Skipper shot back at the ferret messenger.

"Our leader will submit to any terms you set. He says we have shown no signs of aggression and have voiced no ill will towards Redwall Abbey. Surely your leader will consider."

Skipper released some of his tension, glancing at the huge horde of vermin lined up next to the Abbey. It was true what the ferret said and he knew it. But they were _vermin_.

"She says let the leader in," Treeskip whispered into his ear.

"Is she certain?"

Treeskip had to laugh. "Is she ever not?"

Even Skipper had to smile at that. He responded to the ferret, "Your leader will be allowed in on these terms..."

• • •

The Abbess folded her paws on her lap, "So, you are on a peaceful mission at this time?"

The warlord sipped at his glass of October Ale. "Aye. Currently. We had some conflicts with the Lakeravengers in the Northlands a season back. We made a trade agreement: we transport their material wealth to our extensive contacts along our route. We'd been avoiding the Abbey due to...historical tradition."

"Ah, yes, the ever strong feud between vermin and goodbeasts. Our Abbey has been studying that, you know, sifting through records to find its source."

"Really. How interesting." The weasel grinned as he took another sip of October Ale. "You must allow us to buy a cask of this before we leave. Er...Thorn, could you leave me and Abbess alone for a moment?" The warlord winked at the weaselmaid, his second-in-command, that stood watch by the door.

"That's fine, Markus." Thorn complied.

"Treeskip, would you please escort Thorn to the kitchens and present her with one of our famed deserts?" the Abbess added.

Treeskip nodded. "My pleasure, Abbess Elizabeth." He presented his arm to Thorn, who took it, and they silently left the room.

The weasel and squirrel stared at each other a long time.

Mark spoke first. "So, since I choose first, I didn't know if you...well... What was the way that Gonff put it?"

"Stayed for the next page?"

"Why did you stay?"

"The Abbot said he was told of me a dream, that my heart held a special love for the Abbey, that I was destined to be the squirrel to bring Redwall into a new era. And...there was...Treeskip..."

"Love?"

Liz seemed startled by the word. "Yes...I..."

"By horde law, I was the next candidate to be warlord. Velaren had a mess of a system. And there was Thorn also…so it seems we stayed for the same reasons."

"So it seems."

"Liz, I want you to know, that I did love you before."

The squirrel Abbress couldn't hide the tears. "Mark...I never would say it then, but I still loved you too."

• • •

"The food is amazing," Thorn mused.

"It's not called the famed Redwall kitchens for nothing," Treeskip countered. "I wonder if their private conversation is over."

"Strange, but I think they know each other."

"I thought so too, they were talking like old friends."

"You're the Abbess's mate, eh? Is that allowed?"

"It's a first, that's for certain. And Markus..."

"Yes. We've been together for a while now. I think we should check, it's pretty quiet in there."

The weaselmaid started to open the door but stopped midway. Both Thorn and Treeskip blinked. Thorn carefully closed the door again.

"You know, Markus always said there was only one other beast that he ever loved. A love so deep it hurt."

"Elizabeth used to say the same thing."

They smiled at each other.

And that was all that needed to be said. They would never speak of what they saw to anybeast as long as they lived, for they knew that it was a moment of love over boundaries and time and space, a love that was fated never to happen and was not meant to be.

Questions remain and seasons would continue. Mark and Liz found that a kiss could cover all they would ever need to say.

**Writer's Note:** _And so, here is the conclusion of this tale of love and fate. I'm surprised how it turned out and satisfied. I think in the future I may return to this premise, but for now, I think I will leave the tale with Mark and Liz... Thank you so much for reading and good advice. I hope you enjoyed!_


End file.
